Hansen nodded. “It was what . . . he wanted to hear. He thanked me. After he left, I kept telling myself it had been the drugs talking. I wanted to drop it. But something happened to me that year—a painting class I’d taken. The teacher was an Austrian expatriate, a Holocaust survivor. He’d told me horror stories of all the good citizens who’d claimed to know nothing about what was going on. What liars they were. How Vienna had cheered when Hitler took power and everyone had turned a blind eye to atrocities. I remembered something he’d said: ‘The Austrians have convinced themselves that Hitler was German and Beethoven was Austrian.’ That stuck with me. I didn’t want to be like that. So I went over to the library and checked out the newspapers for the time period Luke said the murder had taken place. But there was nothing. Not an article, not a single word about any girl being murdered in Bel Air. So I decided Luke had been freaking out.”

Hansen’s shoulders dropped. He allowed himself a weak smile. Trying to relax. Milo played the silence and Hansen tightened up again. “So you’re saying there really. . . ?”

“Did you ever call Chapman back? Like you said you would?”

“I had nothing to tell him.”

“So what’d you do next?”

“I went back to Yale.”

“Chapman ever try to reach you at Yale?”

“No.”

“When were you in L.A. next?”

“Not for years. The next summer I was in France.”

“Avoiding L.A.?”

“No,” said Hansen. “Looking for other things.”

“Such as?”

“Painting opportunities.”

“When did you move back to L.A.?”

“Three years ago, when Mother became ill.”

“Where were you living before that?”

“New York, Connecticut, Europe. I try to spend as much time as I can in Europe. Umbria, the light—”

“What about Austria?” said Milo.

Hansen’s face lost color.

“So you’re here to take care of your mother.”

“That’s the only reason. When she passes, I’ll sell the house and find myself somewhere peaceful.”

“Meanwhile,” said Milo, “you and your old buddies are neighbors—”

“They’re not my bud—”

“—ever make you nervous? Your being a semipublic figure and having a bunch of murderers knowing you’re back in town?”

“I’m not semipublic,” said Hansen. “I’m not any kind of public. I paint. Finish one canvas and start another. I never truly believed anything happened.”

“What did you think when you learned about Chapman drowning?”

“That it was an accident or suicide.”

“Why suicide?”

“Because he’d seemed so upset.”

“Suicide out of remorse?” said Milo.

Hansen didn’t answer.

“You believed Chapman had been hallucinating, but you left town without trying to convince him there was nothing to worry about.”

“It wasn’t my—what is it you want from me?”

“Details.”

“About what?”

“The murder.”

“I don’t have any more details.”